Oh, God! Art is long And life is short.
Ghibelline, and Guelph.
That treasure’s been handled often, you forget, And the gilding’s mostly rubbed away.
In the end, you are – what you are. Set your hair in a thousand curlicues Place your feet in yard-high shoes, You’ll remain forever, what you are.
How merit and luck are linked together These fools can’t see, no, not a one:.
When your thirtieth year is over, A man’s as good as dead.
Wilhelm, wat is, voor ons hart, een leven zonder liefde!
In science it is a service of the highest merit to seek out those fragmentary truths attained by the ancients, and to develop them further.
Beauty is indivisible: he who owns it Destroys it, rather than share a part of it.
You seem artful at those pretences, Which flatter common folk and princes.
Time is master: age lies on the sand.
Even the prudent and the good have before now hesitated to explain their mutual differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their imaginary grievances, until circumstances have become so entangled, that in that critical juncture, when a calm explanation would have saved all parties, an understanding was impossible.
It is a great folly to hope that other men will harmonize with us; I have never hoped this. I have always regarded each man as an independent individual, whom I endeavored to understand with all his peculiarities, but from whom I desired no further sympathy. In this way have I been enabled to converse with every man, and thus alone is produced the knowledge of various characters and the dexterity necessary for the conduct of life.
The Lord. Hast nothing for our edification? Still thy old work of accusation? Will things on earth be never right for thee? Mephistopheles. No, Lord! I find them still as bad as bad can be. Poor souls! their miseries seem so much to please ’em, I scarce can find it in my heart to tease ’em. The Lord. Knowest thou Faust?
Aquel que quiere obrar correctamente, debe servirse de la herramienta apropiada.
We were the first to carve forms: we began The depiction of gods in the image of Man.
I coddle my heart like a sick child and give in to its every whim. But don’t tell a soul. There are people who would condemn me for it.
I established relationships of all kinds, but I still haven’t found affective company.
Only he who gives is happy.
And show me the man who is ill-tempered and yet is good enough to hide it, to bear it alone, without destroying the joy all around him!